


A Garden of Decaying Flowers

by aria_dc_al_fine



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Mpreg, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-17 01:58:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8125967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aria_dc_al_fine/pseuds/aria_dc_al_fine
Summary: Emperor Alfred only ever wanted his first concubine, his beloved Rose, to be happy. History, his court and the power struggle among his consorts made this wish almost impossible to realise. Main: USUK. Minor: USxHarem, FRUK.A repost from LJ and FF.net, with minor editing. And who knows, I may continue with enough inspiration and encouragement :)





	1. Prologue: The Cast

**Author's Note:**

> If this story feels familiar to you, you might have read this in 2010-2012 from LJ or FF.net.
> 
> This story was started before Hetalia Cardverse existed and Omegaverse became a thing. Mpreg has existed before Omegaverse, of course, but there was no common consensus on the how. 'Begetter' was a term I read from a HPDM MPREG fanfic, 'Saving Draco Malfoy', and it stuck with me.

His First:  _The Rose_

The Rose had been the first of His Majesty's consorts. Many guessed that the Rose was His Majesty's oldest.

The Rose looked nothing like the esteemed flower the title suggested. Pale and frail, the Rose was seldom seen outside official ceremonies, decked from head to toe in layers and layers of various shades of dark green, grey and white, fabric covering almost every inch of skin from view. Gloves shielding slim fingers, stiff high collar and cravat choking thin neck, shawl hiding ears and hair from view.

But the Rose had delicate,  _aristocratic_  facial features; a straight nose, high cheekbones puffed with powders and blush, rouged thin lips, long-lashed large eyes which were often downcast beneath strands of thick blonde fringe. Most servants couldn't recall what colour those eyes were. Modest and well-mannered, the Rose never sparked any scandals and could always be depended upon to play a gracious (if slightly sharp-mouthed) host.

Yet, the Rose couldn't escape from the vicious natters that ran rampant across His Majesty's hedonistic court. Young Barons and Counts whispered that the Rose had dark, dark secrets embedded on its veiled skin, speculated riotously over the Rose's 'shameful' history and 'skeletons in the closet'. The older nobles and servants kept their silence and spoke of white lies over polite smiles, their refusals only serving to fuel the fire.

The Rose merely turned that poised back against the gossip mill, content with books, tea, trusted servants and imaginary friends in company.

* * *

 

His Most Cruel:  _The Chamomile_

The day a big-boned, fair-haired ambassador with an unnerving smile arrived in His Majesty's court bearing greetings from _Utara_ , a mighty empire in the north, no one suspected that the diplomat would be His Majesty's consort.

The Chamomile must have been the most indelicate flower in history: seven-feet tall, with a bulky frame made bulkier still with the consort's choice of thick beige or purple robes and that threadbare,  _ancient_  scarf the Chamomile refused to part with. The courtiers supposed the Chamomile had pretty violet eyes and cute chubby cheeks, but not everyone found the Chamomile's large aquiline nose attractive.

His Majesty and the Chamomile had peculiar chemistry. They could be threatening to annihilate each other through the entire duration of a five-course-meal ( _Utara_ remained the only empire that rivaled His Majesty's empire in military strength) while playing footsie under the table (no, the servants weren't mistaken thank you very much!). Expressions of agony would bounce off the walls of the Chamomile's chambers whenever His Majesty visited, but after the sun peeked out of the horizon they wore the bruises like one would precious stones, with pride, and no small amount of possessiveness.

On these days, the Rose would leave the breakfast table with a hand over smeared lips, cheeks white even with blush liberally applied to the Rose's face.

The Chamomile was volatile. The Chamomile could charm the court with cheerful, innocent, child-like smiles one moment, and wreaked havoc with public,  _violent_  punishments of servants, inquisitions of criminals, and mockery of lower-ranked concubines the next (the later causing the Rose, who was in charge of maintaining order in the household despite not being His Majesty's Empress Consort, much headache). The capital's square could see up to a double digit of hanging a day, depending on the Chamomile's mood. Servants and courtiers were always on edge around the flower, afraid of breathing the wrong way.

Secure in its position due to _Utara_ 's military strength and His Majesty's favours, the Chamomile continued blithely, leaving a trail of red in its wake.

* * *

 

His Most Obedient:  _The Rue_

The Rue's kingdom was a state of the Chamomile's empire. The Rue's titles mattered not a whit, the Rue was but a servant to the Chamomile. So when the Chamomile decided to enter the harem and move to _Barat_ 's capital, the Rue was part of _Utara_ 's dowry to His Majesty.

The Rue never said 'no' to a request (much less a command). The Rue was a skittish, soft-spoken, scrawny brunette who had the tendency to stutter when the Chamomile was around (and almost no one ever saw the Rue without the Chamomile looming its shadow).

The Rue was friendly, and helpful to the servants. But the Rue was quiet, overtly so. Within the flower's first year of residency, only a handful of courtiers admitted to having heard the Rue speak.

His Majesty did not find the flower's behavior suspicious (rather, he did not notice – he had many flowers in his harem, after all) until he incidentally caught the Rue  _laugh_  as the flower conversed comfortably with the Rose's lady-in-waiting.

That glimpse of his flower's character prompted him to start a private investigation, which led to his discovery of the  _very much_  public secret that the Rue was frequently subjected to abuse under the Chamomile's torment. That night, a loud, heated debate could be heard from the Chamomile's chamber; it marked the end to His Majesty's visits and the beginning of a cold war.

The week following that discovery had been all sorts of hell. The fight between His Majesty and the Chamomile had forced every aristocrat and servant to walk on tiptoes for days on end, parading through a charade of daily life with bated breath, stilted words and shivering limbs, waiting, waiting for the other shoe to drop, a declaration of War, a violent debacle – anything that could diffuse the tension.

This went on for another torturous seven days until the two  _finally_  started screaming and tearing at each other's throat over dinner. Everyone vacated the Dining Hall once the touches turned to that of another nature, and the next day, when His Majesty pondered aloud,  _gleefully_ , whose quarter the Rue could be transferred to, the Rose offered without a second thought.

So all in all, things went well for the Rue. As well as things could be, anyways.

* * *

 

His Most Calculative:  _The Peony_

The Peony was a petite fair-skinned darling with silky shoulder-length hair and delicate oriental features. The Peony always carried a worn, well-loved stuffed cat (which had an eerie smile) everywhere. At first glance, the Peony appeared like an innocent, adorable teenager. Yet no one seemed to be able to find out what went on behind the Peony's beady dark eyes.

Despite the Peony's youthful facade, rumours had it that the Peony was possibly older than the Rose, but no one dared to mention anything out loud. Why, the Peony had an extremely strong foothold on the _Barat_ 's economy, as the Peony had come from a prominent clan in _Timur_ , a wealthy eastern empire that had been the _Barat_ 's major trading partner and supplier of coals for the past fifty years. The nobles were always making an effort to please the Peony.

And pay well the effort did, for the Peony would always return a favour owed, and most importantly, exact fair payment for a request granted. The Peony could be depended upon to orchestrate the promotion or demotion of nobles in the blink of an eye, as soon as gold coins exchanged hands.

The Peony was probably the only flower who felt nothing for His Majesty, and vice versa, but nobody minded. Nobody cared. Business went on, as usual.

* * *

His Most Polite:  _The Chrysanthemum_

The Chrysanthemum arrived in His Majesty's court with the Peony, yet the shorter-haired consort was vastly different from the elder relative. The Chrysanthemum, too, had impenetrable dark eyes and spoke in words that belay multiple interpretations. Painfully polite and tactful, the Chrysanthemum avoided conflicts whenever viable.

The Chrysanthemum had been the only flower who could get along well with both the Rose and His Majesty. Equally well-mannered and respectful of traditions, the two flowers were often seen enjoying afternoon tea together, sharing views on literature and the arts. The Chrysanthemum could be seen spending more afternoons with His Majesty, discussing their interests in science and technology over snacks and embarking on ridiculous projects the court had no doubt were started by His Majesty.

The Chrysanthemum was the strongest running candidate for His Majesty's Empress Consort. The Chrysanthemum's supporters were in constant opposition with those of the Chamomile. The two had been the most dominant factions in the court, with the Peony backing its sibling. Such an alliance would profit _Timur_ , and what did the Peony cared about if not costs and benefits?

The painfully patient, impartial Chrysanthemum worked around the tensions in the court and merely continued maintaining good relations with the Rose, the Chamomile and His Majesty.

* * *

 

His Most Passionate:  _The Dahlia_

The Dahlia was vibrant, sensual and enticing, with figure-hugging red silk covering smooth chocolaty skin and sparkling rubies adorning her long, luscious, black-as-midnight curls. The Dahlia's laughter was melodious as chimes of bells and lively as little boys racing across green prairies. Courageous and passionate, the Dahlia was possibly the only person in _Barat_  who could talk back to His Majesty. The gem of His Majesty's eyes, the Dahlia would have been His Majesty's Empress Consort if she weren't His Majesty's beloved half-sister.

* * *

 

His Past:  _The Iris_

The Iris was a beautiful, beautiful woman with clear sky-blue eyes and soft golden curls. His Majesty was the apple of the Iris' eyes.

The Iris was His Majesty's mother.

TBC

Comment please!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify, the character's titles are based on their National flowers.
> 
> Arthur/UK = the Rose  
> Ivan/Russia = the Chamomile  
> Toris/Lithuania = the Rue  
> Yao/China = the Peony  
> Kiku/Japan = the Chrysanthemum  
> Maria (OC)/Mexico = the Dahlia  
> Jeanne D'Arc = the Iris


	2. A day in Barat's court

 

"I heard they've come home," one of the maids murmured as she opened the curtains.

The Rose reached for a towel to wipe the water off his face as Xin, his most loyal maid, continued combing his hair, fastening his hood and pinning his 'crown' – a Tudor rose made of rubies and diamonds – onto the back of the shawl around his head, the way he wanted it. [1]

"They finally did?" an elderly maid sounded hopeful. "I've been praying for my son to come home alive…I hope I can see him later!"

"So the army managed to take over the disputed region?" a younger maid, barely a teenager, asked curiously as she arranged the sheets. "That piece of land between _Selatan_  and _Timur_?" For someone so young and uneducated, she sounded intelligent. The Rose supposed he had reasons to worry.

Another maid nodded. "The new leader of the mercenaries…he's young, but he's skilled."

"Is he handsome?" The excitement gave rise to a buzzing.

The Rose made sure to drag his chair back as he stood up, and the servants shut their mouths immediately. "I suppose," the Honoured Consort spoke, "Since Lord Edelstein and Lord Zwingli are away, I shall have to hand the leader of the mercenaries his rewards on their behalf." He raised his arms. [2]

"Yes, Milord," Xin responded as she slipped her master's arms into the sleeves of a brown waist coat and dark green robe and arranged the way the fabric fall around his figure. He turned around and let her paint his face with blush and make-up. "No kohl," he warned her when she frowned at him. "We need to hurry."

"Before Lord Peony lays his hand on the mercenaries," one of the maids whispered, and the rest giggled.

The Rose glared at them nosy women, and the noise died again. "If I find a speck of dust later…" he let his threat hang.

"Don't worry, Milord," the elderly maid bowed to him. "We will meet our responsibilities."

He shrugged and left his chambers.

* * *

 

"Ve, ve, when are we leaving? _Barat_  has good weather, but the food in _Timur_  is better," Feliciano gushed. "The women, too! _Barat_  has too many begetters [3]-"

"Ludwig!" another man called him. An archer in his group, he recognised him. "Someone in court's finally granting your request for an appointment!"

"Ve, finally we can get our money!" Feliciano cheered.

Ludwig gulped nervously. His first encounter with a noble. His brother had no knowledge of this. He'd come to _Barat_  despite his brother's prohibition.

" _Listen, Ludwig," the albino's crimson eyes were stern and nonnegotiable. "Don't ever let yourself be employed by Emperor Alfred. Better yet, don't ever agree to fight against or for him, let alone set one foot on his castle grounds!"_

His brother was the man who'd taken care of him since he could remember. And he'd about to break every single rule.

But Ludwig couldn't help it! His brother's rules were unreasonable! The villagers desperately needed money, and _Barat_  always paid mercenaries handsomely.

 _It's okay_ , he assured himself. He would take the money and leave, never to contact _Barat_ 's intriguing court of concubines, power struggles and assassination of princes ever again.

Or so he thought.

* * *

 

"Good Morning, Rose-san," the Chrysanthemum greeted him as soon as he reached the breakfast table. The flower was, as always, decked in neat, colour-coordinated kimono, his crown of gold, amber and diamond unfurled Chrysanthemum clipped to the left side of his inky black hair. Today, his kimono was dark violet, patterns of golden butterflies printed on the fabric, and fastened by a brown obi; modest, yet pleasant to the eyes.

"Morning, Chrysanthemum," the Rose greeted his friend in return before turning to his tea. He took a sip and sighed blissfully, a small smile forming on his lips, before he attempted to start a short conversation. "You're early this morning."

There was a question embedded in the statement.  _Was His Majesty not in your room last night?_

Astute, sensitive Chrysanthemum detected it, and answered, "I slept quite early last night."

The Rose went back to his tea, adding a dash of milk to the dark liquid. "I see." He sighed again, a slight frown forming on his brows, behind the thick curtain of blonde fringe.

The two fell into a comfortable silence, whereby Xin poured a second cup of tea for the Rose and the Chrysanthemum started eating his oriental breakfast of soy beans, rice and sweetened eggs.

Soon enough, a third party joined them. "Greetings, Lord Chrysanthemum, Lord Rose. I'm sorry I'm late," the Rue rushed to his seat and bowed, cheeks flushed and breathing labored. His robes and hair pins were askew.

The Rose pinched the bridge of his nose with gloved fingers. "Sit down, Rue," he spoke softly, before glancing at his maid. Xin caught the order and curtsied before covertly shooing most maids and servants out of the room.

"Rue," the older flower began and the younger jumped on his seat. "I didn't take you under my wing to make you my servant." He crossed his fingers in front of his chin and leaned on his elbows. "I am your protector, not your master. You should use your youth and make yourself known to His Majesty." The Rose gestured and shot a critical gaze on the brunette's drab clothing. "Don't let yourself be shadowed."

 _By Chamomile,_  the unspoken word was loud in its absence.  _This is your chance at revenge._

Chrysanthemum, the unprejudiced bystander, kept quiet and did not point out the irony in the Honoured Consort's advice. He merely smiled at the Rue and offered him a piece of toast.

The Rue, flustered, accepted the toast with a stuttered thank you, before clearing his throat and sending the Rose an even gaze. Good, he was a fast learner. "Thank you for the advice, R-rose."

The silence that followed was awkward, and stilted. The door to the room was opened unnoticed. There was no noise but the clattering of cutleries until the Rose was glomped from behind. "Morning, Rose!"

The blonde gasped in shock (thankfully, he'd finished his tea, else he would have spluttered it all over the table cloth), before noting the frills on silky red gloves covering the tanned hands around his shoulder. He smiled, "Dahlia, please stop surprising an old begetter like me. One day, my heart is going to drop."

"You aren't old!" Laughter filled the room with livelihood as the energetic flower sauntered to a chair next to the Rose. Her long-lashed dark eyes were filled with mirth and warmth. "Age is mind over matter!" she spoke chirpily before beaming at the other two flowers. "Morning, Chrysanthemum! Morning, Rue!"

Greetings were returned, and more and more people joined the breakfast table. The Rose found himself glomped a second time. "Mommy!" a seven-year-old blonde boy with clear blue eyes and bushy eyebrows ran to the supervisor of His Majesty's household and grinned, gaps showing on his side teeth, before hugging his waist.

"Peter, what did I say about running in corridors?" The Rose sighed before dropping a kiss on the top of his head. His baby's limbs were growing longer and longer each day it seemed.

"Walking's not fun," the boy scowled as he was steered to a padded chair by Xin. "And reading, too!"

"Peter, education's important," the Rose was going to develop a perpetual frown dealing with his son. "And if you've been listening to your tutor, you would have known to greet everyone in the morning."

"I've been listening!" he pouted and bowed to the flowers seated around the large round table. "Good morning, Milords, Miladies!"

The Rue and the Chrysanthemum returned the greeting, while rest treated the boy of questionable paternity as though he was not there.

The Rose praised his son with a proud smile to make it up. "That's a clever boy." He dropped another kiss to his warming smooth cheek.

"Education is important, da?" The atmosphere of the room seemed to change the moment that booming child-like voice bounced off the walls. "Especially for the likes of your boy." The Chamomile joined the breakfast table with a wide, wide smile, the black and purple bruise blossoming on his left cheek proudly displayed like a gem. He took the opposite side of the round table, and almost immediately, lower-ranked concubines flocked to him, currying his favours.

The Rose placed his arm around his son's shoulder, thin body leaning unconsciously to protect the youngling. "Good morning, Lord Chamomile. Good morning, Lady Flax," he nodded at the siblings courteously, noting the jerky nod the long-haired platinum blonde sister returned. Her mood was unmistakably cloudy that morning.

The Chamomile opened his mouth to speak, but the large violet-eyed man was interrupted. "Education is important for everyone," a soft, but firm tenor voice spoke, followed by a young man, regally dressed in red breeches and ivory shirt, wavy shoulder length blonde curls (including that errant curl amongst his bangs) falling to protective dark blue eyes.

The Prince took the gloved hand that was resting on Peter's shoulder and dropped the ghost of a kiss on its back. "Good morning, Arthur," the smile he gave the other blonde was fond.

Half a step behind him, his Princess Consort, Katyusha, curtsied, "Good morning, Rose."

"Good morning, Your Highness," the Rose was, as always, overcome with feelings of pride at what a fine man the timid, shy boy had grown to be. And it was shown in his gaze, in the curve of his lips. "Good morning, Sunflower."

The couple proceeded to the middle of the table, siding with neither the Chamomile nor the Rose. The Prince and the Chamomile did exchange a frosty look, though, before poor, poor Sunflower, caught between two allegiances, tried to diffuse the tension between her brother and her husband while everyone tried to avert their eyes from her bouncing assets.

Same ol', same ol'.

"Milord," Xin reminded the flower about the appointment with the leader of the mercenaries, and he rose to his feet. "Chrysanthemum," he reached for his son's hand, which wriggled and wriggled in his hold until Peter was seated on a chair next to the flower. "I have an errand to run, please keep an eye on the little devil."

The slender man smiled politely. "It's no problem, Rose-san."

"I'll take care of him too, Arthur. Don't worry," the Prince offered, and a murderous aura materialized around the Chamomile at the open display of support for the Rose and his child of debatable fatherhood. The Sunflower looked like she was about to cry at her sibling's 'kol, kol, kol'.

The Rose attempted to maintain peace. "Oh, there is no need for the trouble, Your High-" at the Prince's glare, the Rose relented. "Thank you, Matthew."

The Emperor's twin, whom nobody ever approached for coups because his loyalty to his brother was absolute, beamed.

* * *

 

Ludwig paced around the place (which seemed to be a study room of sorts, with hundreds of books lining the three-shelved cabinet and a mahogany desk with parchments and ink bottles strewn across the smooth, flat surface), large hands fidgeting the sleeves of his coarse cotton shirt. He sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk for a total of five minutes before he got up again.

"What's gotten you in a snit?" someone said from the doorway, and Ludwig nearly jumped.

The soldier quickly turned, dropped to his knees and greeted the noble. "Greetings, Milord."

"And to you, too," the noble moved stealthily behind the desk (he's skilled, Ludwig noted, his footsteps soundless and balanced), and gestured at the seat he'd just vacated. "Please sit down."

Ludwig stood and straightened his spine. "I'm fine where I am."

The noble shrugged and opened a drawer to take out a large leather-bound book which, from the looks of it, must contain records of the castle's expenditures. As the noble leaved through the yellowing pages, Ludwig took some time to study the thin man – so obviously a begetter, with such feminine bone structure. And regal facial features. His eyes, he also noted, had a striking colour. Like his own guardian's eyes. A bit of a shame to hide it under such thick bangs-

"I heard you're quite skilled." The noble's low, smooth voice cut through his reverie and put him back on his toes. Damn, but Ludwig got way too relaxed out of battlefields, sometimes. Next, came his puzzlement over what to reply. Should he deny the compliment with modesty? Or should he just express his gratitude?

"How about working with us for another assignment?" the noble offered as he took out a pouch and started counting and double counting the golden coins inside.

Ludwig was spared from his uncertainty, but he landed into another predicament. How best to express rejection. "Sir," he bowed as deeply as he could, "I am extremely sorry."

The noble looked up, the shawl around his head brushing his shoulder. "…I could offer a higher salary," he bargained.

"I am sorry, but I am afraid the reason is personal, Minister."

The noble's right eye twitched, and Ludwig had a brief moment of  _oh, I'm going to be punished now_  panic before the older blonde sighed, "I see." He finished counting the coins, tied the pouch and placed it at the end of the desk.

Ludwig let out a breath he'd been holding and was about to take his reward and leave when suddenly, a blonde man in a blue pajama robe crossed the room without a care to the world and slung an arm around the noble's shoulder. "Oi, mercenary, this begetter's not a Secretary of the State. He's my Rose," the man spoke challengingly.

Blue met blue, and Ludwig quivered from the power the other blonde emanated. He was a man with the aura of someone who was born and raised to rule and conquer.

"Your Majesty!" the somberly-dressed noble – no, a flower, he was a flower – hissed. Well, Ludwig thought, the colour and cut of his clothes were so serious, the thin blonde must have been a member of the parliament, a Minister of Internal Affairs, an administrator – anyone whose job was  _not_  to sit around looking pretty and conceive the Emperor's heir. And the noble was old, thirty, at the very least, and his ruler was vibrant, authority emanating from his very core. How could-

Why was he even thinking about this? Oh, God, he'd made a grave mistake, hadn't he.

"Your Majesty!" the flower stood and turned, his expression thoroughly scandalized, "How could you loiter around looking like this, oh, where are your servants-" As soon as the question was out, a handful of maids entered the room with a basin of water, a chest, shoes, robes and other grooming tools in hand. They settled around the Emperor as the flower continued fussing. "Go wash your face! I'll pick you a robe and a pair of decent shoes," he rambled, gloved fingers unbuttoning the Emperor's pajama deftly-

Until a large, strong hand enclosed those smaller hands and stilled their movements.

"Arthur," the young Emperor held his flower's gaze and used his other hand to unclip the symbolic hair pin (now that the flower had his back to him, Ludwig could see it) from the back of his shawl. The stiff fabric came apart, exposing more sandy blonde locks on the flower's nape. "Oh!" the flower raised his hand to fix it, but His Majesty held him immobile by his chin.

"I told you to put your hair pin in a more prominent place," the Emperor chided his concubine gently. "The pin represents your title and rank, it's your crown. You should wear it proudly." His fingers combed through the shorter man's hair, finally fixing the pin somewhere above his right ear, before the Emperor summoned a maid to bring the chest closer. She'd opened it and laid out many, many sparkling gold and bejeweled pins. He eyed them critically before selecting a clover-shaped pin, bright emeralds covering the leaves. "Here," he folded the shawl back in place, and fastened the new pin. "A gift."

"T-thank you." A blush spread on the flower's face, from his cheeks to his ears and neck. Pink, white and green - the begetter looked adorably as beautiful as his title.

But then he laid his eyes on a patch of yellow violet bruise on the Emperor's shoulder – a matching bruise the Chamomile had – and crescent rows of sharp teeth breaking the golden skin of the Emperor's torso, marks of possessions. The budding smile died from the Rose's lips. He cast his gaze aside. "Please get ready for the day, Your Majesty."

The taller blonde's thin brows creased and he glared at the mercenary, focusing his unhappiness and irritation on the innocent bystander.

Ludwig dropped to his knees immediately and knocked his forehead to the ground. "Utmost apologies, Your Majesty, Milord."

"That was no fault of yours," the Rose moved away from the desk, closer to the kowtowing soldier. "I wasn't exactly showcasing my title."

"That's no excuse to start voicing assumptions," The Emperor's expression turned more and more sour, his gaze at the other blue-eyed blonde accusatory. Was he…Ludwig gulped, was he  _jealous_ the Rose was defending him! That's…absolutely impossible right?

"Hey, I know!" The monarch clapped his hands together, a bright grin that contrasted with the feverish malice in his entirely too transparent eyes spreading on his face. "I heard you're skilled. Let's duel! If you could beat me, I'll let you go!"

Ludwig drew a sharp breath.

"Your Majesty, that's preposterous!" the Rose returned to the Emperor's side and latched onto his arm. "You're barking mad!"

"If those words were uttered by anyone but you, Arthur, I would have accused them of spreading lies to usurp my throne and put them under the guillotine." The tone the statement was delivered in was bone-chilling. It was almost a threat.

The Rose's grip on his husband's sleeve loosened, and the petite begetter stepped back slowly, a gloved hand covering his mouth, his chest heaving. The sound if his stuttering breath made Ludwig clench his fists from imagining how those striking eyes would look, now.

"So?" His Majesty's voice was chirpy again. Such a whimsical child.

There was no choice, wasn't there?

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Medieval courts have nobles acting as ladies-in-waiting to the Queen, but when I started writing the story, the setting was heavily based on Ancient Chinese harems, and there consorts / concubines didn't have nobles as ladies-in-waiting, they had commoners contracted to be Palace maids.  
> 2\. I know in Ancient China, the harem is not supposed to be involved in politics at all, and now that I think of it, Ludwig could have just gotten his money from an underling of the Minister for Finance, but 6 years ago when I wrote this, I was just thinking that I needed a reason for Arthur and Ludwig to interact in a situation where Ludwig may mistake Arthur's position. And I realised I was imagining the scene to fit more of 'rich aristocrat wife' setting rather than 'concubine of the Emperor', because sometimes wives of aristocrats might still be involved in business. But then again, may be exceptions could be made, since Arthur's background is rather...peculiar. You'll see from future chapters.  
> 3\. Begetters, in this AU, are males that can conceive and carry their fetus to term.


	3. A shadow from the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so touched that so many people still remember this story and respond to me warmly.
> 
> And to new readers, welcome!
> 
> Thank Goodness I still keep the notes of what plans I have for this story. Things are busy at work, but I will try to update for sure!

"…What has he done this time?" Prince Matthew whispered as he settled next to the Rose, who was sitting entirely too stiffly on his seat in one of the platforms in the arena. Any stiffer, and his spine would be mistaken as a rod.

The flower was silent for a long time. Only murmurs of "utter bollocks" and "pure stupidity" were Matthew's answer. He sighed and gave up. His twin brother performing outrageous deeds weren't anything new.

“Where’re Lord Edelstein and Lord Zwingli?” Matthew changed the topic.

The Rose shrugged. “Busy governing. Like good governments do,” he grunted darkly.

Matthew decided not to push.

"Where is Sunflower?" the green-eyed blonde asked in return when he was finally in a conversational mood.

The Prince shrugged. "She decided not to attend," he answered. "The platforms are small and I don't think you'll like sitting with Chamomile, but I can't be with him without you there with me as well…" the young man blushed at his accidental confession.

The Rose sighed, but his lips curled to a small smile. "Good, you're a sensible man. No one in their right mind would be comfortable being alone with Chamomile."

The unspoken agreement that Alfred was not sane was loud and clear. Especially when the Rose was eying the Emperor's figure at the centre of the arena, limbs, chest and back clad in steel protective gears, a shield on one hand and a sharp sword in his other. From the platform, the Rose could see that his eyes were gleaming, lips quirking into a victorious smirk.

Alfred did not see the mercenary as any competition at all. And that was worrying.

"What storm has he cooked up this time, aru?" the Peony's arrival startled the Rose off his fretting. His siblings, Chrysanthemum and Plum, were settling near them as well. The flowers and the Prince exchanged short greetings before the Peony added, "Aiyah, never mind, let the fool be the fool. Are you joining the betting pool?" He arranged his ponytail to his left shoulder and crossed his legs, unconsciously letting the slit of his deep maroon high-collared oriental silky dress reveal more of his creamy thighs.

At the mention of the bet, the Chrysanthemum turned away embarrassedly, while the Plum pretended that she did not hear anything.

The Prince blinked. "What bet?"

The Peony pointed at the arena, where the two contenders were preparing themselves.

"You can't be serious," the Rose frowned.

The slender Timurian begetter shrugged. "Most flowers and courtiers have placed their bets."

"I don't think anyone would seriously bet that the mercenary would win…" the Rose retorted sceptically.

"That's not the term of the bet," the Peony remarked nonchalantly. "We're betting when His Majesty would win. Down to the most accurate minute."

The Rose shook his head and clicked his tongue. "I'll pass."

"Your Highness?" the flower peered at His Majesty's unswayable twin.

The royalty appeared to be considering the option. He opened his mouth to voice his decision, but he was interrupted.

Their attention was directed to the arena when the horn signalling the start of the duel was blown. The two blondes charged at each other, swords meeting with loud clangs. His Majesty attacked aggressively, his intention to corner his opponent palpable, while the mercenary met his moves calmly, clear blue eyes assessing the Emperor's wide-angled, inefficient movements with the intensity of a predator, his own limbs and torso moving marginally to avoid the blows and deliver some back. There was quiet destruction reflected in those irises, a beast waiting to be unfurled.

The Rose shivered when he observed those eyes. He had seen that suppressed chaos before, in someone's striking eyes, long, long ago…

" _Brat!" a thrust to his shoulder narrowly avoided, "Just because you've been bestowed the title of a flower, and you've won Francis' favour, you think you own the court? Don't be so cocky!" Crimson eyes bore into his skull, mayhem and thirst for blood and his opponent's subjugation shining so prominently in demonic irises, the eyes of a man born for wars. "I swear, I'll make you learn your place-"_

"Alfred!"

The Rose returned to the present when Prince Matthew stood up and leaned against the railing, his brows creased in worry for his brother.

The flower followed his line of sight, and ominously, the situation had been turned. His Majesty was cornered to the end of the arena now, struggling to block successive strings of well-aimed blows delivered by the mercenary. A head-on left-handed thrust directed at the opponent's heart. A sweeping slash from the ground to eye-level. A squatting stance, followed by a powerful jump.  _Alfred, don't move to the left, he is not going to cut you from above, he was going to kick you from the left,_  the Rose thought fervently, and he was surprised when a kick from the left was indeed, delivered, and Alfred was knocked to his rear. Why were the moves so familiar to him…

" _Runt," the fallen warmonger smirked and accepted the hand which had been offered to him, the line of his lips peaceful and acquiescent. He swept back the white strands of hair that were plastered to his forehead, the aquamarine and diamonds of the cornflower attached to his hair gleaming under the lights of the chandelier in the ballroom, before he grinned. "You're surprisingly talented, aren't ya?" The statement was followed by a thorough glomping."Welcome to the court!"_

The Rose's eyes widened at the revelation.

In the arena, the mercenary raised both his arms to prepare for the finishing blow. Ludwig had no intention to end the life of his Emperor, not really, he just wanted to disarm him, no injury intended…

And disarmed the Emperor did get. Sky blue eyes stared disbelievingly at his sword, which had been thrown a good ten feet away, before determination entered those eyes again. The monarch rose to his feet and kicked a handful of sands to his opponent’s face. Ludwig recoiled, eyes teary in pain, and charged, almost too reflexively, belatedly realizing  _Mein Gott_  he was going to seriously wound his own sovereign-

A knife sailed through the air and knocked the tip of his sword, causing the sharp blade to change its course and embedded itself in the ground between His Majesty's legs.

* * *

 

 _Oh, shit, shit, shit,_ the Rose's heart jumped to his throat when the sword was heading toward Alfred's abdomen. His right hand reached for the knife he always kept in his pocket, and with ten years' worth of training of archery and a couple of throwing knives – thankfully not rusty yet, oh, God – managed to hit the tip of the sword with his knife.

"STOP!" Without caring about the possibility of being caught in a cross-fire, the Rose jumped over the railing in a flurry of robes and ran to his husband, glad for once that he was wearing sensible boots. The flower latched to his side and helped pull him to his feet. "The duel is over. The mercenary has deserved his freedom," he spoke firmly.

For a few seconds, the Emperor seemed like he was still too stunned for words. Unfortunately, his wits returned before the Rose could drag him completely off the arena. "He hasn't won yet! He hasn-"

The glare the blue-eyed monarch was subjected to was worthy of scaring the shit of even demons. "Your Majesty," the Rose smiled eerily, "Time is precious. I'm sure you have lots of regulations and policies to be discussed with your subjects. Mind not your humble subject, the well-being of the Empire should be your top priority."

The monarch was shoved into the waiting arms of his assistant, who expressed his gratitude to the flower before carting the Emperor to the study room at the speed of lightning.

Ludwig sighed in relief, glad that his predicament had met an amicable resolution. He shed his loaned protective gears and was about to walk away before the flower stopped him. "Young mercenary," he spoke without facing him, his voice low and crisp. "Do you, by any chance, know anyone by the name of Gilbert Beilschmidt?"

Ludwig's heart dropped to his stomach. Was he about to find the reason why his brother was vehemently against any involvement with the Royal family in the worst possible circumstance? Was he not out of mortal peril yet? "I-I…" He stuttered, "…he is my…guardian."

"I see." The Rose turned to face him, striking eyes searching his facial expression. There was a faraway, nostalgic look in those eyes (and was that pain?) before the begetter reached into his collar and extracted a necklace, the delicate chain tarnished yet unmistakably gold, chips of red and blue adorning the pendant.

The Rose dropped it to the ground next to Ludwig's feet. "Tell Beilschmidt," he inhaled sharply, "tell Cornflower, Arthur's fine."

The hammering of Ludwig's heart declined to normal when no more words were forthcoming. He picked up the necklace and was truly about to leave now – Feliciano had been waving his damned white flags throughout the duel and damnit if it hadn't irked him like a persistent itch – when the Rose suddenly spoke again. "And-"

The gaze he shot the mercenary was cold and dangerous now, traces of concern completely wiped out from impenetrable green. "And don't ever come near Bonnefoy Dynasty's Castle again. Better yet, flee to another kingdom. I'm not responsible for your life if my advice is unheeded."

Ludwig stepped back (in shock, not in fear, never in fear), gave a jerky nod, and left.

* * *

 

In a hut deep, deep inside the forest across the mountain bordering the capital, a middle-aged albino sat next to the window in his kitchen, striking crimson eyes staring at the sun setting on the horizon. His fingers were rubbing a small ornament in his palm, a cornflower-shaped pin whose jewels had dimmed from lack of proper maintenance, but the gaze its owner was showering it was full of affection. "Gah," the man sighed, "you're not so old yet, awesome me, what are you being sentimental for…"

The front door creaked open softly, and Gilbert perked up immediately, tackling Ludwig as soon as he was through the door. "Well, well, what do we have, here?" With the noise the gang of mercenaries was making outside, Ludwig was stupid if he thought that he could slip in unnoticed, really. "Where have you been, huh? Why did I not receive any news from you? I was so tired of waiting I almost left the hut to hunt you by myself!"

The blue-eyed blonde flushed guiltily. "…Gil, listen," he stated somberly. "Don't panic."

At the end of the narration, though, Gilbert screamed, "WHY THE HELL DID YOU DO THAT! I TOLD YOU OVER AND OVER-" He barely managed to squash the urge to tie the boy to his bedpost and never let him out of his sight, ever and ever again-

"Gil," Ludwig interrupted softly, and presented his fist to his guardian. A gift, eh?  _Does he seriously think he could bribe me_? Gilbert shook his head and sighed as he opened his hand to receive it.

And nearly dropped the necklace that was placed on his hand.

" _This way!" Loud splashing footsteps. Sweat dripping down his forehead. A sharp pain piercing his abdomen. "It's nearly the end of the tunnel, Cornflower-"_

" _Gilbert," he heaved before he fell to his knees, filthy water from the underground sewage seeping to the fabric of his trousers. "My name is Gilbert, Arthur. Gilbert Beilschmidt."_

_The teenage boy screeched to a halt and turned, forest green eyes unbelievably luminous in the dimness of the tunnel. "Gilbert," he crouched next to albino and helped him stand, one arm slung across thin, scarred shoulders. "Come on, Gilbert, you're still a free man. Don't give up yet!"_

_The younger man dragged the other for miles and miles, water sloshing around their ankles, until a ray of light emerged, a source of hope amidst the dark and the dank._

_A smile blossomed on the face of the man who had thrown away his status. "Thank Goodness," he whispered._

_The younger man let him go. "I can only accompany you till here, Gilbert."_

_The red-eyed man grabbed the blonde's hand. "Arthur-"_

_The slave dropped a kiss to the former Cornflower's hand. "May God bless you, Gilbert," his smile was fragile and heart wrenching as he patted the bump on the albino's lower belly. "May God bless you too, our lost Prince."_

"-message, 'Cornflower, Arthur's fine.'" Gilbert barely heard what Ludwig was telling him.

The albino blinked. And blinked again. "I see. Still trapped in that Castle, huh," he murmured as he moved to the kitchen absentmindedly, and sat on the chair he'd vacated. Ludwig followed him. The two existed in perfect silence before Gilbert finally spoke again. "How fine is 'fine'?"

Ludwig did not know what kind of answer his guardian wanted. "…Pardon?"

"Is…is he, I don't know, skinny? Heavily scarred? Limping?" He grew more and more worried the more he asked.

"Um. Not at all?" Ludwig fidgeted uncomfortably. Did the Rose and his guardian actually know each other? "His clothing's too drab for a flower's, but-"

"Hold your horses," Gilbert raised his hand. "A flower?" He gaped.

"Well…" Ludwig shrugged, "Remember the Rose I was telling you about?" He got a quick nod. "Arthur is the Rose."

Gilbert's jaw was opened so wide Ludwig feared for his bones. "You mean, the Rose of Emperor Alfred?"

A vein popped on the mercenary's temple. "Which other Emperor could we possibly be talking about?"

Gilbert stared dumbly at the tarnished necklace in his palm before he laughed out loud, his other hand banging the surface of the kitchen table. "Oh, that runt," he panted through bouts of laughter, "That runt. All of us underestimated you, didn't we?"

Ludwig shrugged at the display of insanity and went off to start cooking the pasta Feliciano had been noisy about.

TBC

Comment please! 


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